


Bruised and Gagging

by singularthey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Handcuffs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singularthey/pseuds/singularthey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade likes the sight of Sherlock bruised and hurt, and the idea of him held down and made to take it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruised and Gagging

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a fairy thread at [the Sherlock rant meme](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com/10091.html?thread=82973803#t82973803):
>
>> I'll keep it nice and simple: Lestrade/Sherlock, top!Lestrade, rough sex.

_Hit me_ , he'd said. _Make it look convincing._ Well, Greg Lestrade was no actor, but he figured a real punch was convincing enough, even for Sherlock Holmes.

The problem came a few minutes later, after the skirmish the punch had resulted in. With Sherlock's face pressed to dirty pavement, his nose and mouth bloodied, his hands caught together behind his back, they were certainly convincing enough for the thugs they were after, but Greg was fairly certain the erection he was sporting would ruin the image they were trying to put forth. The only option was to hide it against Sherlock, at least until their suspects were near enough, lured in by the promise of violence on their turf.

Mercifully, Sherlock didn't mention it. Or he hoped it was mercy, at least. Greg knew he'd felt it — it had been pressed right into his thigh, for god's sake — but he didn't say a word. Not a subtle jab, not a snide joke — nothing. He helped take down the suspects, he provided more than half the evidence to put them away, and he went on his way with John, as though it hadn't happened at all.

Four days later, Greg had nearly forgotten about it, in the sense that it only came to his mind when there was nothing more pressing to think about. He was thankful for his work, which seemed to be the only thing that fell into the "more pressing" category.

So of course there was a lull on the fifth day, and _of course_ that was when Sherlock decided to show up unannounced.

He hadn't called him in, hadn't been informed of any cases that might need his assistance, so without work to act as a buffer, he bluffed. "I don't have time for this, Sherlock. Go find someone else to help you."

"Oh, don't be stupid. You're so boring when you're like that." The door clicked shut behind him, and Greg had to look away, because Sherlock's eye was still purpled, just a bit, just enough that it didn't quite match its partner. "You've been staring at the corner of your desk for at least twenty minutes now. Besides, I'm not here for work."

Greg closed his eyes. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he had to ask: "What is it, then?"

There was a muted _clink_ , and he looked up to see a pair of handcuffs dangling from Sherlock's finger. He swallowed, reminding himself that they were a part of his work, a completely nonsexual tool, and that Sherlock should absolutely not have them in his possession.

"How'd you—?"

"Your officers need to learn to watch their pockets," Sherlock said, dropping them onto the desk, right between them. "I thought I'd return them, and see if you wanted to put them to use."

Greg looked up. _No_ , he couldn't mean—

"On me," Sherlock confirmed, and the bastard looked as smug as ever. Greg figured he ought to do something about it.

He didn't look so smug with his face pressed into a desk, his hands cuffed behind his back, and his trousers and pants around his ankles. No, not smug at all; he looked _delicious_ like that, his arse slick and shining up the crease, because he'd come prepared. Greg pushed at the fleshiest part of him, just looking, admiring. He almost regretted the amount of lube that he'd used; he wanted Sherlock to feel his cock opening him for at least as long as he had that black eye, but he realised it wouldn't do to have him limping out of there. It was a bit suspicious already, with the shades drawn in a little office nobody really used, but there was no doubt his colleagues would talk if Sherlock Holmes looked too well-fucked to stand upright.

They'd probably talk anyway, sure, but at least he had some plausible deniability yet.

He wanted to do a million different things to that arse: to stuff it full with his fist, to cane it red and bruised, to lick it until he never forgot the taste. He figured if he was lucky enough to try any of that, he could see about making him sore then. If not... Well, he had a good enough imagination for it, anyway.

"Fuck me already," Sherlock demanded, his voice half-muffled and yet still so impetuous. Greg gave his thigh a sharp, quick slap, and then pressed up behind him, positioning his condom-sheathed cock, and pushed _in_ in one brutal stroke.

The strangled cry it tore from Sherlock's throat spurred him on where he might have paused, and he gave him no time to adjust to his girth, drawing out until little more than the head remained inside him and slamming in, grabbing at a hip with one hand, the other pressing his weight down onto Sherlock's shoulder.

"Yes, yes, _yes_ ," Sherlock chanted, and besides the occasional attempt to thrust back, straining against Greg's hold, he just _took_ it, took it beautifully, writhing and moaning and utterly brilliant, like his body was eating it up. His jacket strained against his shoulders as he pulled at the handcuffs reflexively, his fingers grasping at nothing, and every time Greg pounded into and happened to brush his prostate — he certainly wasn't aiming for it, at any rate — he bit his lip and whined, clenching his eyes and his hole at the same time.

"Shhh." Much as Greg loved Sherlock's enthusiastic noises, the tiny office was hardly soundproof. Still... "Fuck, just you wait. One day I'm going to fuck you properly, and you're going to _howl_ for my cock."

Sherlock gasped against the desk, rolling his head and pressing his nose and forehead into it, his thighs trembling. "I— _Christ_ — I look forward to it."

"Yeah, you do," Greg said, and redoubled his efforts, thrusting hard enough that his balls stung where they'd hit Sherlock's arse, the impact and echoing hint of pain driving him higher and higher.

He was loathe to release any part of Sherlock, but he couldn't come before he'd wrung it out of him, he just couldn't, so he let his hip go, reaching for his cock. Once he'd grasped it, he stripped it mercilessly, too fast, too hard, _just right_ , and in moments Sherlock tried and failed to swallow a pained, ecstatic sound, spilling over Greg's hand and the desk's front.

He moved both his hands, then, to Sherlock's hips, pulling him up and back into every thrust, fast, faster, digging his fingers is, until blinding pleasure found him and he came hard, groaning long and low.

Sherlock cleaned up quickest, as expected, and so Greg let him leave first, giving him a five minute head start before he'd even think of leaving. If anyone could deflect attention, anyway, it was Sherlock Holmes, so Greg just laid against the desk, his trousers still open, and waited for his breath and his mind to return to him.

When they did, he noticed, distantly, that the handcuffs were nowhere to be found. He hoped desperately that he'd see them again.


End file.
